


Ad Infinitum

by MachaSWicket



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Gen, Movie Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  <i>without end or limit; again and again in the same way, forever</i>. Logan kisses Veronica on the forehead and walks away. Set mid-movie and, therefore, contains movie spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ad Infinitum

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: to Katelinea for the excellent beta work, and to Ghostcat3000 for pinch-hitting as the human thesaurus and putting me out of my damn misery. ;)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Yeah, they're still not mine.

_”Take care of yourself, Veronica.”_

_“You, too.”_

Driving away from Veronica Mars, Logan feels like a weird mix of that increasingly desperate college kid he was the last time they parted ways, and the man he’s become since. Last time around, as he’d left for Europe to get away from her (and Piz), it hadn’t even occurred to him that he’d never see her again. She’d been a part of his life since he was twelve years old, and a really important part at that.

This time, after nine years of separate lives -- well, what are the odds he’ll be free to look her up next time he’s in New York?

What are the odds he’ll be _free_?

Logan takes the turn onto Dick’s street too fast and the tires chirp. He parks, pushes himself out of the car, plods up to the darkened house. No telling where Dick is, and Logan is a little relieved. He’s feeling what Veronica used to call “ _brood-y_ ”; Dick just calls him a downer when he’s like this.

To be fair, Logan is pretty confident he’s earned these bleak thoughts, what with being the number one suspect in a sensational murder investigation. The slightly tarnished _Aaron Echolls, Movie Star_ glow that may have been an asset back in high school has since turned into the stain of _Aaron Echolls, Murdered Possible Murderer_. The Echolls name doesn’t have much in the way of prestige left, and the truth never seems to matter much to the Sheriff’s Department. 

Logan had thought his chances were iffy _before_ seeing how unenthusiastic Veronica was about his representational options. Now… well, _a face you won’t want to punch_ isn’t much in the way of a recommendation.

Essentially, he’s fucked.

He walks through the house, doesn’t turn on the lights. He just drops his keys onto a table, tugs his wallet out of his pocket and dumps it, too, then keeps going straight out the door and onto the patio.

It’s dark, and a little cool with the ocean breeze. He inhales, tasting the brine on his tongue. 

Logan abandons his shoes on the deck, pulls his socks off, and steps into the cool sand. He keeps going, down to where the sand is still a bit damp from high tide, and drops down to sit. His white pants will get dirty, but he doesn’t give a shit. _Can’t wear designer pants in prison_ , he thinks darkly.

That cold, heavy dread he’s been feeling, the despair that keeps his body tight and his stomach roiling -- it’s particularly keen tonight. Because he’s starting to believe Sheriff Lamb the older and douchier might have been right when he’d grinned and said the third time’s the charm. 

How many times can one person be wrongly accused of murder, anyway?

There’s gotta be something in the law of averages for this. He’s concerned that the _thing_ will end up being some weird correlation between number of times charged with murder and conviction rate. Veronica would probably know, but he doesn’t think it would reflect well on his state of mind if he called her to ask about statistical chances of acquittal.

He picks up a handful of sand, lets the cool grains run between his fingers. 

He’d fooled himself into thinking that he could call Veronica, and she would understand his predicament and find a way to help him get free of it. Just like she used to.

It was irrational and it was probably unfair to expect her to drop everything to help him, even though she had. And no matter how large she looms in his memory, she’s still just one woman up against this publicity-seeking department of corruption.

It pisses him off, this rush to judgment against him by Lamb and his cronies. His ex-girlfriend died _three days_ ago, and he hasn’t even really dealt with that. Carrie is important to him -- she deserves better than to be eclipsed by obsession over his own self-preservation.

She’s -- she _was_ a good person, under all the self-loathing. Quick, funny, and surprisingly sweet, in the times when she wasn’t _performing_ \-- Carrie-as-Bonnie DeVille. Bonnie was a persona, a way for Carrie to feel like she was _enough_ , to overcome some of the shitty voices in her head that told her again and again that she wasn’t. 

Carrie’d never been able to explain to him where the self-loathing came from, and on some level, it didn’t matter. Logan knows plenty about self-loathing. Hell, he spent his teenage years swinging wildly back and forth between self-righteous egotism and soul-crushing self-hatred. Eventually, he’d clawed his way out, found some middle ground to stand on -- and he’d just always assumed Carrie would do the same.

But she hadn’t. Over the years, he’d come to basically hate Bonnie as much as he once loved Carrie. Because Bonnie was everything that was wrong with Carrie -- her pathological need to be someone else, be better, be different. And when she couldn’t, when she got off the stage and she was still “just” Carrie, she started using to drown out the disappointment. 

Logan wants to mourn her -- thinks he should be rending garments and weeping for the loss of her light. He _does_ miss her, and has for months now. He thinks maybe he did most of his mourning for her a year ago, when her downward spiral became too obvious to write off as another dip in the roller coaster of her life. 

He can’t even remember how many times he weathered her desperate shoves and angry scratches when she was off her ass on coke. All of which was better than when she started shooting up. Because manic, high, rageful Carrie reminded him of Aaron in some ways, and Logan learned young how to take that kind of punch.

But when Carrie was fucked up on heroin, she was another wretched, despondent woman that Logan couldn’t save. If he’s being honest with himself, he knows he would have left Carrie a lot sooner if she hadn’t become some fucked up kind of do-over for his mom. The same hollow, dead eyes, the same blank, slack look on Carrie’s face that he used to see after school most days.

And he _knew_ how this story would end, how Carrie would die. The fifth time she lied and said she was clean and then shot up in his bathroom, he ended things, because he couldn’t just stay and watch. He ended things, but not really, because when you’re on the wrong end of abandonment over and over again, you can’t just leave someone you love. So he left, but stayed way too involved, way too invested in trying to save her, no matter how he chose to describe their relationship. 

All the stress and fear, none of the sex and affection. Like some awful metaphor for his life.

Then she was murdered.

Electrocuted. How fucking grotesque. 

Logan flops onto his back in the sand, staring absently at the stars. So much light pollution and smog that they’re dull and grey, but he looks for the Big Dipper anyway.

The sick thing is he’s _happy_ for the electric shock he got when he found Carrie. He’ll take the mild nerve damage along his left wrist in the exchange, because the jolt at least knocked him out, and now his memory gets fuzzy right around when he spotted her from the doorway.

He’d seen her later that night, identified her body in the clinical green-tiled morgue in the basement of Neptune General, since her family wasn’t around to do the honors. He's pretty sure Lamb meant it as punishment, escorting Logan to the morgue just to watch him react. And it’d been awful -- the antiseptic smell, the low hum of the fluorescent lights, the squeal of metal when an orderly moved an empty steel gurney, and Carrie’s familiar features pale and drained of everything that made her someone. 

Lavender strands of hair on a crisp white sheet. 

That haunts him, but he’s not sure he could handle having a vivid mental image of her lifeless body in the tub, too.

The dangling arm -- it’s fucking bad enough.

Logan realizes he’s crying. “Goddamnit, Carrie,” he mumbles. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for -- failing her, somehow. 

His old therapist always said Logan takes too much responsibility for the people around him. Logan stopped seeing the therapist about six months into his relationship with Carrie. He wonders what Stanley would say if he called out of the blue. 

He wonders if Stanley expects the call, considering.

Logan laughs, harsh and sad. 

Considering his fate is going to be in the hands of some starfucking lawyer and 12 of his peers.

Considering a lot of people think he’s a murderer.

Considering Carrie’s dead.

“Fuck.”

Logan pushes himself up from the sand, stumbling back towards Dick’s beach house. It’s late and he’s tired and he spent an entire day with Veronica and he misses Carrie and he really wants about five drinks in rapid succession and the resulting fuzzy oblivion, which means it’s time for bed.

Inside the house, Logan peels off his shirt, drops his pants and steps out of them, and slides beneath the sheets.

& & &

He can tell by the brightness of the sun it’s late -- later than normal for him, at least -- when the phone wakes him. Logan is a morning person these days, more out of necessity than any real affection for the sunrise. The military is pretty inflexible about what time you need to report, and about the punishment for being late. 

It’s disorienting -- Dick’s sun-drenched guest nook, the lateness of the hour, the ringing phone. He has the strangest sensation that this is some sort of dream, but he pushes himself up and reaches for the phone anyway. 

_Veronica Mars_.

He frowns at the display, at the old picture of he’d taken of her in college, that familiar knowing smirk looking back at him. Shouldn’t she be on a plane? “Veronica?” he answers, resisting the urge to pinch himself just to double check. He’s got an inkling that maybe she’s going to offer to help -- not with the lawyers, but with the case -- and it hits him hard.

But he’s too scared to let himself hope for anything.

“I changed my ticket,” she says -- no greeting, no preamble. “I’m gonna need more information on Ruby Jetson.”

And he grins, that constriction in his chest easing just a little bit. “Ah,” he says, settling back into his pillows and scrubbing a hand across his face, “so my compelling alternative theory is now _your_ compelling alternative theory?”

He can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Something like that. Can you pick me up?”

“Sure,” he answers, even though that’s not a question that even deserves asking -- of course he will. “I should remind you that I’ve been warned not to leave the country.” As jokes went, not his best ever. Every time he thinks about prison, his stomach clenches. 

She huffs a laugh, but ignores the reminder of why, exactly, she’s here. “Do you need my dad’s address?”

“Nope, got it,” he admits. He hadn’t wanted to look like an ass picking her up from the airport with no earthly idea where to take her. “Forty-five minutes okay?”

“Perfect,” she answers. “See you in a bit.”

She hangs up before he has the chance to respond. _See you_.

He pushes himself upright, and when he runs a hand through his hair, grains of sand fall out. 

Logan showers quickly, then shaves, taking a little more care than the situation actually warrants, for reasons he’s not too interested in pursuing. His hair is much less labor intensive these days, and he’s ready and out the door in a reasonable amount of time.

The drive into town isn’t long, but Logan is suddenly anxious. It’s stupid, he’s already _done_ this at the damn airport -- sweaty palms, jumpy nerves, all of it. Maybe it’s because that felt like a shot in the dark. Just a quick hit of Veronica, his own sprite-sized Lady Justice blowing into town to help him pick a lawyer. 

But this is different, and he has no real frame of reference. If he was surprised when she agreed to fly out to help him make a decision, he’s stunned that she went to the trouble of rearranging her life to stay and help him. When he called her for help, he hadn’t let himself consider the possibility. Not really. The legal stuff -- it was at least a one-time favor. Fly in, one day of help, fly home. He knew he couldn’t expect her to leave her life and work a case the way she used to. That would be selfish, and he isn’t that guy anymore.

Besides which, he’s pretty sure asking someone to get you off murder charges for a _third_ time is just gauche.

He’d dropped her off last night expecting to never see her again. But he recognized the steely determination in her voice just now. He recognizes that tone, that attitude as _his_ Veronica. Kickass boots, rapier wit, dogged determination -- and the woman who would kill him if he ever said she was “his Veronica” aloud.

Yesterday she’d been a bit quieter and more reserved, allowing him to take the lead with the endless attorneys, occasionally probing for details. They weren’t strangers, but they weren’t friends, really, either. 

Things about her are different (and understandably so, given the passage of time) and things about her are the same. And at the Beachcomber, he’d seen more of his old friend Veronica, but she was still a disconcerting mix of then and now. 

He supposes he must seem that way to her, too, though he’d felt more like himself during their brief time at the Beachcomber than he has since Carrie died. Than he has in months, if he’s being honest.

Logan pulls up to the curb in front of the Mars residence, not knowing what to expect, ignoring the nervous tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel, the strange hitch in his breathing. He texts her quickly, _I’m here_. 

Pushing open the car door, he twirls the keys around one finger, then tucks his hands in his pockets as he circles the car. He’s going to go knock, take a deep breath, say hi to her father. Face Keith Mars as the grown up he is now, even though he knows almost everyone (but Veronica) looks at him and sees that screwed up kid turned into some kind of murderer.

He’ll face her father anyway, no matter how much the prospect makes him feel like a teenager. As he steps onto the pathway up to Keith’s house, Logan sees movement through the glass door and stops.

She’s there, already opening the door, so he steps back and leans against the car to wait. It’s probably not a mark in his favor that he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to endure Keith Mars’ disapproval. 

And it’s a damn good thing Logan’s got something to lean on, because Veronica’s _there_ \-- kickass boots, tight black pants, black leather jacket, bag slung over one shoulder, smirk on her face. 

_His Veronica_. 

It knocks him for a loop. He feels that irresistible pull, that undeniable buzz of attraction he always has.

Logan watches her walk toward him, knows he’s smiling helplessly and can’t make his face stop. Jesus, she’s gorgeous. It’s like double-vision -- he can see her from years ago, and he can sure as hell see the woman she is now. 

Hell, he can’t take his eyes off of her.

She reaches him, tilts her head, and he knows she’s waiting for his reaction.

He pushes himself upright, and he has no idea what he’s going to say until he’s already said it. 

_You should only wear this._

& & &

As Logan pulls away from the curb across from Ruby Jetson’s apartment he feels… different. 

A little off-kilter, a little emotionally unstable, but also a little lighter? Maybe telling someone the truth and being _believed_ helps. Because she picked at the edges of his story, but Veronica was digging for clarity, not because she didn’t believe him.

Somehow, it’s enough to make him feel very slightly less suffocated by the weight of suspicion, of impending charges, of the _death_ penalty. He doesn’t understand how, as a 17-year-old, he didn’t fully implode, when as a responsible 28-year-old, he’s not sure he’s going to make it through tomorrow.

He smiles a little to himself -- Veronica Mars is on the case, now, so maybe he should breathe a little easier?

It’s silly -- the remnants of his teenage-self’s adoration of her. He knows now how improbable it all was -- that a high school girl solved her best friend’s murder, the murder of nine of her classmates, and her own rape in a single year. How fucked up it was that she _had_ to.

But Veronica was a fucking superhero, lacking only booty shorts, a sparkly bustier, and a cape with a stylized magnifying glass.

“What’s so funny?”

Logan snaps back to the present, glancing over to find Veronica’s amused gaze on him. He realizes he’s smiling broadly and shrugs. “Just thinking how absurd it is to be back here.”

He’s speaking metaphorically and she gets it. Her curiosity morphs into understanding and he thrills at this -- at how well they still understand each other. “Yeah,” she agrees, but if he’s not mistaken, she sounds… wistful?

It doesn’t make sense, but before he can question her, she touches his arm. “Feed me?”

He grins. “Okay, Audrey II.”

She laughs softly. “So I can call you Seymour?”

“Hell no,” he answers. “Anywhere in particular?”

Veronica turns her face away, watching the houses get larger and larger as they reach the 90908 zip code. “I trust you.”

Something inside him does a slow flip, and he’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, mind racing through options for a late lunch. Good, comfortable, not at all date-like. Most importantly, somewhere without associations for either of them. 

It’s a much tougher combination than it should be. 

“When do you need to be back at the the flower shop?”

She smirks. “I don’t have a curfew, you know.” Which is an absurd response, since it’s not even 2 in the afternoon. He’s hardly expecting them to spend the entire day together. (Though his alternative plans include wallowing and brooding, so really, it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.)

He levels an amused gaze in her direction. “Just didn’t want to incur the wrath of Keith Mars.”

“I want to do some more research on Ruby this afternoon,” she answers, “but I need sustenance.”

“Then sustenance you shall have,” he promises, turning toward the freeway. 

She looks curious when he heads south, out of Neptune, but says only, “Probably shouldn’t flee the country just now.”

He snorts but doesn’t answer, and is mildly surprised that she doesn’t pepper him with questions. _Where are we going? What’s the Zagat rating? Are there potato skin appetizers?_

Luckily, the wind is loud enough to cover his chuckle.

He tries for zen, for simple presence in this car with her -- the wind, the speed, the purr of the engine, the warmth of the sun on his face. The woman beside him.

But he can’t quite silence the panicky part of him, the boy who knew he deserved the beatings, who knew he never deserved someone like Veronica in his life -- not then, and not now. Therapy and reason had never fully conquered the sick worldview beaten into a six-year-old. Sure, he _knows_ that headspace is wrong and fucked up and is almost always able to ignore it.

Except when he’s really stressed out or really upset. The last few days, he’s both -- plus sleep deprived. And knowing something and _feeling_ it are almost completely unrelated concepts.

He sees movement in his peripheral vision, keeps himself from flinching as he snaps out of his dark memories. Veronica’s fingers alight on his forearm and he glances over. Her expression is enough for him to know she didn’t miss the way he’d tensed up.

“It’s gonna be okay, Logan,” she says, just loud enough to be heard above the road noise and the wind. 

Logan blinks hard and swallows a helpless _Is it?_ He turns back to the road, knuckles white against the steering wheel. He jerks a nod and she rubs his arm briefly with her thumb, then lets go. He ignores the goose bumps.

He eases to the right, exiting into La Jolla and winding toward the shore. He’s never actually eaten at The Shores, but Gonzo, one of the guys in his squadron and a seafood aficionado, swears by it.

At the very least, it’s free of any uncomfortable associations.

“This okay?” he asks.

Veronica’s answer is to eagerly push out of the car. He rounds the hood to join her, and his breath catches again at the full effect of her outfit. She’s standing two feet away from him, but the time they’re spending together has an expiration date, and for a second, he misses her so badly it aches.

It’s gonna suck when she leaves. Maybe he should call his therapist after all.

But that’s a problem for another day. Logan’s hand lands on her shoulder blade, ushering her toward the restaurant. “C’mon, let’s get you fed.”

& & &

Logan realizes a bit belatedly that they’re both done with lunch -- plates cleared, bottle of wine nearly gone. When he thinks about it, it occurs to him that they both _have_ been done for quite some time. 

They’re sitting out on the restaurant’s deck, a three foot glass partition the only thing between them and the rocky beaches below. There’s an oversized umbrella providing some shade, and the wind keeps Veronica’s hair fluttering around her face most of the time. She’s been telling him stories about Stanford, about law school, about _her life_ in the past almost-decade, and time just kind of… got away from him.

He’s even slouched down a bit in his chair, muscles relaxed instead of clenched, shoulders in a reasonable position and not hunched up near his ears, one leg splayed out. It’s the first time he’s been able to forget that gnawing mixture of grief and fear since he found Carrie’s lifeless body, and he smiles. It feels inappropriate, maybe, but he can’t exactly help his instinctual reaction to some much-needed moments of calm. 

Veronica reaches for her wine glass, then pauses, tilting her head slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, unable to really put it into words. “Nothing, I just…” Logan plays for time, taking a sip of _his_ wine. He gestures vaguely towards the water, noticing for the first time that the sun is quite a bit lower in the sky than when they were seated. “This is nice.”

She actually laughs at him. “This is _nice_ ,” she repeats, her lips twisting with distaste. “What is this -- a business lunch?”

His answering laugh surprises him -- it’s been at least four days since he’s genuinely laughed at anything. The sudden urge to hug Veronica, even if it’s just to thank her for getting him out of his own dark thoughts for a couple hours, surprises him even more. “No,” he says, “I just mean -- the last few days--” He stumbles to a stop, tension straightening his spine.

Veronica reaches across the table, covers his hand with hers. It’s a comforting gesture only, and he has to remind himself not to turn his hand beneath hers. Not to thread their fingers together, because that’s not what this is.

That’s not who they are anymore.

“Logan.”

He looks up, and her gaze pins him in place, her blue eyes so, so bright in the late afternoon sunshine. “Yeah?”

Her voice is soft and maybe a tiny bit scared when she says, “I missed you.”

It’s the last thing he expected her to say, basically ever, but especially here, now, in the middle of his chaotic clusterfuck of a life. Because she’s grown up, she’s stable, she’s content, so how could she possibly miss the kind of uncertainty and fear that apparently _still_ likes to follow him around?

She squeezes his hand, her thumb drifting underneath, touching his palm. “I wish I’d called you back. You know, after I left,” she adds, and his chest feels tight again. He remembers a sober voicemail message he’d left her, and a couple hazy drunken ones. He hadn’t been at all surprised that she never called him. Veronica looks down for a moment. “I’m sorry I disappeared on you.”

Logan’s shaking his head, because she doesn’t need to apologize to him. But he can’t figure out how to respond, so he just says, “Veronica.”

“I mean it,” she says quietly, and when she looks up to meet his gaze, he can see it on her face -- the quiet disappointment. He used to assume that kind of thing would only ever be aimed in his direction, and the echo of their old fights hits him hard. But she squeezes his hand once more, drags him back to the present. “Leaving town was enough for me to…” She pauses, tucks unruly strands of hair behind her ear. “I shouldn’t have severed all communication with you. You--”

It’s her turn to stumble over her words, to stop short. 

In college, Logan would have agonized over what she stopped herself from saying, would have poked and prodded until she broke -- with a confession or with anger. But he’s not a kid anymore, and she doesn’t owe him anything. She’s done more for him in a day and a half than anyone has in years. So he rubs his thumb gently against her wrist and says, “I missed you, too.”

As much as that’s true, as much as he would love to hear every last thing she wanted to say about how much she regrets not having kept in touch -- he _really_ isn’t sure he has the emotional wherewithal for it. He’s grieving for Carrie and terrified for himself, and adding a whole lot of complex knowledge about the defining romantic relationship of his damn _life_ would just be... 

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking his head until Veronica gives him a small smile and pulls her hand away. He feels strangely bereft.

She sips the last of her wine, places the glass down on the table with a solid clank. “Okay,” she says, giving him her high-wattage grin. “That’s about enough of _that_ maudlin crap, right?”

Logan huffs a laugh, almost against his will. “Probably,” he answers. He digs out his wallet, tosses a few twenties on the table, and then hooks a thumb toward the interior. “You ready?”

She pulls her bag onto her lap, reaching inside. “Can I--?”

“No way,” he says, pushing his chair back. “My treat.”

Veronica watches him for a moment, then gives him an exaggerated eye roll. “Well, damn, if I’d known that, I would’ve ordered the crème brulée for dessert.” But she’s up and moving, and before he can answer, she’s inside the restaurant, winding her way among the desolate interior tables towards the exit. He follows in her wake.

When they emerge back out into the sunshine, she glances over at him. “Can you drop me at my dad’s office?” 

He can see her fire, her spark as she focuses back on this mystery to solve. She’s thrumming with energy, her eyes sparkling, and having _Veronica Mars_ back in his life -- even briefly -- is a hell of a lot more soothing than he would have expected. They’ve always been volatile, passionate -- how is it that her reappearance has provided him with this hour’s worth of calm so he could catch his breath? 

“Logan?”

He realizes they’re standing at their respective car doors, staring at each other because he hasn’t unlocked the car. The top is still down, so she smirks and reaches inside to unlock and open her door.

“Sorry,” he says, dropping into the driver's seat. He pulls himself out of his musings, remembers her question. “Your dad’s office -- sure.”

Their doors slam shut at the same time, and Logan turns the car on. He drives in silence for a while, winding away from the shore. He’s still worried, still grieving, still surrounded on all sides by uncertainty. But Veronica staying to help -- it makes a things just a few degrees less terrifying. It makes him breathe a little bit easier.

He glances over at her. She’s watching the scenery as he drives, one hand holding her hair in a loose clump, the other tapping rhythmically against her thigh. “Hey,” he says, waiting until she meets his gaze. “You want to grab some ice cream on the way back?”

Veronica straightens a bit, beaming back at him before she scoffs, “Like you have to ask.” She leans forward a bit and pats the bag on the floorboard. “My treat.”

“Well, in _that_ case, I’m getting a sundae,” he decides. "Chocolate _and_ caramel sauce." He manages not to reference freshman year of college, but he sure thinks about certain food-related adventures. He doesn't dare look at her.

“You can’t drive and eat a sundae at the same time,” she answers, her tone playful.

Logan reaches over and runs his fingers along the edge of her seat, smoothing along the off-white leather. “You think we’re going to eat ice cream in _this_ car?”

She ignores his point and gestures out the windshield. “I’m pretty sure we passed a place on our way there.”

Logan smirks, because she’s clearly got their destination locked and loaded. “You’re _pretty sure_ , huh? Where’d you see it?”

“Probably two miles from here, on the right,” she answers immediately. “Converted gas station painted bright red, with a big, ice-cream-cone-shaped sign on the corner.” She taps a finger against her chin, as if summoning a memory. “Almost positive it was called Glinda’s Cream Cones.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he does it. “You’re unbelievable.”

Veronica gives him a playful nudge with her elbow. “You play your cards right, mister, and I just might get you some sprinkles on that sundae.”

Logan rolls his eyes, and accelerates.

THE END


End file.
